The Hardest Part
by Insideavoice
Summary: "The hardest part is letting go of the nights we shared." Haunting, daunting & helpless, Eli reflects on life. Beware: Cynical Eli is cynical. A rather rambling drabble, sung to the ever hopeless "Miserable at Best." Because I just have a lot of feelings.


**Author's note: As much as I'm a fan of Eli and Clare, I've somehow managed to accept this season that they're not really the people they started out as in season 10. For better or worse, they've both changed, as any teenager is apt to do.**

**And althought I've somehow managed to come to terms with this, I still have a lot of _feelings_ about it all. Yes. Much too much. Considering they are fictional... And while I was feeling emotional and thinking about these two, I just so happened to be listening to Mayday Parade's _Miserable at Best_.**

**I'm afraid I had no control over the outcome. Particularly, the ending. My apologies. It's not exactly for the faint of heart, although it _is_ Eli's state of mind so I guess that really shouldn't be much of a shock after all.**

**Enjoy, maybe please?**

_i. The hardest part is letting go of the nights we shared…and you know, it's haunting  
>but compared to your eyes, nothing shines quite as bright<em>

Up in the house on a hill, moonlight filters in through his window as he sits alone in his room. Here, the insignificant, material clutter of his life welcomes him, though he barely acknowledges it… is even able to recognize any of it, at this point—the once-upon-a-time-complete-jumble-of-junk which previously defined his existence.

But now, now he feels he has nothing. Nothing worth having, treasuring, cherishing.

To himself, he swears he'll get rid of it— throw it out for trash, abandon everything by the wayside, give it all to charity, do anything— if doing so will displace the memories.

Because the scenes, they play out as if on a silver screen before him. He sees it all quite clearly… the deep-seated days, the vivid nights, the indelible memories. Each holds commonalities, or rather one single, widespread entity. It is her face which fills his mind on that ever present silver screen inside his head. Smiling, chiding, laughing, caring, _being_. Always her. These days it's always ever her.

But he can't _do_ anything. He's stuck inside her smile, her voice, her laughter. Those eyes.

Nothing is as it was.

Back in the beginning, before there was ever even the thought of an end to them, he tried to beat back the awful notion that he was far too blessedly lucky for his own good. But in the end, that's all it ever was. Dumb luck. Good. Bad. Blind. And every single fucking thing in between.

Nothing is as it ever was.

_ii. And when we look to the sky, it's not mine but I want it so_

At that odious, malevolent school, he spies her with him. As much as he's isolated himself from everything and everyone, the rumors he does hear manage to slip in through the cracks. Adam remains tight lipped about the whole affair but it is Fiona from Drama Club who informs him of the latest development: the new kid and…he still struggles with her name…have been _seeing each other._

Whatever that means. He's not even sure he wants to know specifics, if he _should_. Even now, he still feels as if he has the irrational right to know.

So from a nondescript spot in the school hallway, he watches the two as they walk to class, so clearly involved in some animated discussion, seemingly on an intensely deep and personal level.

He watches her eyes gleam adoringly. But she's still looking at him, Jake, who inexplicably has her bag slung over his shoulder.

He watches her eyelids flutter to the floor, a blush creep into her cheeks.

He remembers when it all used to be his.

But nothing is as it was.

_iii. 'Cause I know I'm good for something, I just haven't found it yet and I need it_

In an effort to erase the novel, budding couple from his swirling vortex of an empty, cantankerous brain, he immerses himself in work for the play— writing, rewriting, crossing out, editing, rewording, revising and rewriting still. He tweaks characters, draws up possibly improbable sets for the stage, shares a strange, nostalgic stage kiss with quirky Imogen during her audition for the part of Clara, casts various actors and actresses to their corresponding roles and then decides to rewrite the script. Again.

Howbeit, he has yet to feel satisfied with the end result, while his swirling vortex of a brain prepares to erupt.

_iv. And this'll be the first time in a week that I'll talk to you and I can't speak_

He's pictured this moment so many times before, how this scene might play out between them. He even shamefully prayed to the something he doesn't believe in up there to grant him the words to be ready for this. (Though he won't dare admit such sudden acts of weakness to anyone.)

Now at school, she stops before him and opens her mouth as if to speak. But she doesn't. Instead, she purses her lips with a sad, little despondent look in those eyes as he fights within himself to find something worth saying to her.

But she turns to leave and it isn't until the bell sounds that he realizes the moment has passed. His swirling vortex of a brain continues the ongoing preparation for eruption.

_v. It's been three whole days since I've had sleep 'cause I dream of his lips on your cheek_

He's torturing himself, he knows, but he's always known himself to be self-destructive, masochistic. At least now he's not hurting anyone… Anyone just happens to be off with Jake tonight, of that one fact of life, he remains alarmingly confident.

But the world turns, and on his restless mattress, so does he. Tossing, turning, he's so exhausted, he beckons sleep to come but it won't listen.

Helplessly, he shuts his eyes only to see them. Laughing together, joking, talking, kissing, loving, laughing. In his mind, the pictures cycle through over and over and over again.

With a jolt, his eyes snap open, calling back the memories. The kiss he had before his midterm French exam, letting her twist his rubber arm, dropping everything and bringing her into his room, teaching her to drive Morty, kissing her, distressing her, dragging her down with him, breaking, shattering, missing her. The pictures cycle through over and over and over again.

His eruption seems evident, for nothing is as it ever was.

_vi. Let's not pretend like you're alone tonight, I know he's there_

Sleep still won't come. He reconciles himself to just this other fact of life, ambling downstairs to grab himself a drink from Bullfrog's beer fridge. The house buzzes in silence as he makes his way back up the staircase to his room, managing to identify a clean spot on his bedroom floor to comfortably sit on. He lowers himself to the ground and relishes in the sound of the beer's top popping and takes a long, hard swig, swallowing before deciding something.

He can't blame her for cutting loose, finding a new, big, strong guy. He doesn't blame her anymore, no. Despite everything he's ever told Imogen, he realizes he could never really, truly hate her.

Deliberately, he'd handed over what was left of his heart to her. And somehow, in writing his love all across hers, the ink had smeared, bled. And in his effort to reiterate all that he felt, he suffocated the person who brought him back out of his darkness, to life.

_vii. And I got the point that I should leave you alone, but we both now that I'm not that strong_

Presently, alone he sits at home; the darkness and alcohol still in hand, a shell of all he once was. Out of desperation and the sheer, recent solitary confinement he's drifted into, he thinks of going to her again, running, fleeing, rushing to her in this dead of night to inform her how she unknowing still holds his heart in the very palm of her hand.

But despite appearances, he's full of trepidation. Too afraid she will look down, surprised and see that, yes, his heart is in fact still there. He is sure she will laugh in his face before tossing the offensive item aside.

Not that he blames her. He, himself, doesn't want it either.

_viii. Because these words were never easier for me to say…_

On the floor of his bedroom, he knows that besides it being a general, entire mess, there is another particular reason as to why he doesn't want his heart back. He decides he _wants _her to have it, keep it, always for as long as she'll have it. And thereby have everything and everyone be back to the way they were before this total disarray began.

So once again, he takes up his pen and this time he crosses out, revises, rewords and reworks and gives his all to do just that.

_ix. …or her to second guess_

When the moment arises and the change of heart, the ending of the play, is finally, _finally _made known to her, she comes to him, just as he hoped she would.

But she stands ahead of him at his desk, her eyes skeptical, her stature steady and serious. "You made Clara the hero?" she tells him, but it sounds instead like a question.

And he just looks at her, because after everything they've been through, how could she ever doubt that?

He wants to let her know she has no reason to doubt, to be dubious at all. But then he overwhelmingly remembers. She is with Jake after he crashed his hearse into a wall, despite her desperate pleas of needing "space." He hadn't listened to her then.

He wonders how he could ever think she could trust him now.

_x. The hardest part is letting go of the nights we shared…and you know it's haunting_

Up in the house on a hill, moonlight filters in through his window as he sits alone in his room. The memories, they play out as if on a silver screen before him. The deep-seated days, the vivid nights, the indelible memories. But without surprise, he finds one single, widespread entity throughout. Her face fills his mind, no matter how many times he tries to shake the memory. Smiling, chiding, laughing, caring, _being_. Always her. These days it's always ever her.

But he becomes contented to this life. He once thought he could have her again. Oh, how he wished. How he wishes still.

But there's still life to live. Some days, he lives it in an uncanny sort of hope that feels almost unnatural to him. Others, he lives in a helpless, resolved state of apathy. When CeCe or Bullfrog or Imo or Adam or Fi asks, of it all he says he's unconcerned.

Nothing is as it once was. But his swirling, muddling vortex of a brain has yet to spout out its eruption.

And for that alone, he musters up every last bit of appreciative gratitude he's got left in his being. Because maybe then it will be enough.

_xi. I can live without you, but without you I'll be miserable at best_

**Author's note: Review maybe, please, and I'll love you forever?  
>Thanks for reading!<strong>

**oh and if you're interested...pretty please check out my profile for the link to the title page I've created for this story! lemme know whatcha think maybe please? Thanks.**


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